Overcoming
by Immortal Supernatural Freak
Summary: "I just don't know how to tell him." Mycroft mumbled. "I mean, it's not like I can just go - oh, Gregory, just so you know, I was almost sexually abused as a child, shall we go to the café for lunch?" -Having a secret can take it's toll, especially when keeping it from the person you love. What'll happen when Greg finds out the secret Mycroft has been keeping from him for 13 years?
**Authors Note:** **HEYO! XD Please tell me what you think; I would love to know XD I own nothing and no one, apart from the following:** William Timothy Carlton Lestrade-Holmes, Isaac Gregory John Lestrade-Holmes, Eliza Willow Lestrade-Holmes.

 **JUST SO YOU KNOW: This is my THIRD attempt at Sherlock and FIRST attempt at Mystrade, so please be kind!**

 **Please, please review XD**

 _ **I SHOULD REALLY BE WORKING ON MY MULTI-CHAPTERS! DX**_

 **Greg**

 _ **"Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime."**_ **-** **Herbert Ward**

Dating a Holmes was nothing like dating anyone else - that much was obvious. John was the only one who could understand, though I suspected Sherlock was _far_ more difficult to handle than Mycroft.

Mycroft already had an understanding on how to act in social situations... Sherlock either didn't know or just couldn't be bothered. I was betting on the latter. But, what people wouldn't expect from the Holmes brothers, apart from John and me, was Mycroft and Sherlock were extremely: insecure, self-deprecating, self-loathing. No one would be able to guess, even though it was so obvious. However, the Holmes brother were also very secretive. It took until Mycroft was eighteen for them to tell someone about their abusive parents, and the only reason they did was so Mycroft could get Sherlock out of that house. It took a year for us to find out _everything_ Sherlock had put up with from his peers at school - Mycroft was furious. There were many things Sherlock and Mycroft kept from each other, as well as John and me. I didn't blame them for keeping secrets - neither did John - we just wished they would, you know, trust us a little more. But that would take time and we knew that.

Unfortunately, Mycroft was a little more wary than Sherlock - the younger Holmes was far more open to John that either would admit - so it was harder for me to get Mycroft to open up about things. It was because of this that I had to chase after him as he ran out of my flat. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what had gone wrong. We had been sitting on the sofa watching TV - nothing out of the ordinary... Then Mycroft just, suddenly, jumped up and ran out the door, making some excuse that meant he had to go home. It wasn't the first time it had happened either. No, more like the eighteenth - not that I'd been counting. Not only did it make me question whether or not he trusted me, but it made me so conscious of every little thing I did around him. I never knew what would set him off out the door.

As I ran after him, I wondered if there would ever be a time when he trusted me enough to tell me what was going on, or if this was what was going to happen until one of us couldn't take it anymore. I didn't want it to come down to that, because I knew I would _never_ be able to give him up. Mycroft and I had been together since he was nineteen and I had just turned twenty - though it had felt so much longer, considering how long we had been friends - but now he was twenty three and I was twenty four... We had been together for four years and, hopefully, for many more to come; all I wanted was a little bit of trust.

* * *

 **Sherlock**

I had been living in the house, with Mycroft, since a couple of months before my eleventh birthday. The idea for Mycroft to find a house, and fight for guardianship of me, was made when I was three and he was ten - we knew we would go through hell during the next eight years, until our plan could be put into action, but we were prepared to face it all. The case was easy to win - our ' _parents_ ' didn't count on us revealing all the bruises or providing video tapes of what they did to us. Honestly, they were the first people to call us freaks, they should have known we were a hell of a lot smarter than them.

On this particular day, like many others, I had taken to lying down on the floor of the living room. Mycroft already knew that it was one of my many ' _quirks_ ' and I knew I didn't have to worry about any consequences like I had to when living with our ' _parents_ '. I had been lying there for a while - how long exactly I couldn't say - but I never expected Mycroft to suddenly place himself next to me, a pillow under his head. I knew that Mycroft was supposed to be with Gregory at this moment, they always put aside time for each other, just like Mycroft and I did for each other. I also knew there were things my brother had yet to tell Gregory, though I could understand his hesitance.

Now, people that didn't know us as well as Gregory and John would think that Mycroft and I despised each other - that we wanted nothing to do with each other... They were wrong. Mycroft and I were very close, we told each other that a lot. For a long time, we were the only people the other had and trusted - we had to act a certain was towards each other so we weren't used _against_ each other. It could get hard, but we worked with it.

Shuffling a little closer, I turned my head to face my brother, linking my fingers across my stomach.

"He will understand." I told him, quietly. "Gregory wouldn't use anything against you."

"It's not that simply, Lockie." Mycroft sighed, frowning, as he stared up at the ceiling. "I wish it was, but it isn't."

"I know that, Myc. I just wanted to remind you that Gregory _will_ understand. I'm not trying to hurry you along or anything, I don't want to push you when it comes to this... Just know that Gregory will understand and he _will_ help you."

"I don't know how to tell him..."

I never liked seeing my brother hurt. I never liked it when the people that created us hurt him physically and emotionally. I never liked it when his peers ridiculed him for being smart and different. I just never liked seeing my big brother hurt. Shifting a little, I managed to get closer to Mycroft - close enough that I could rest my head comfortably on his shoulder and hug him, my brother's arm around my shoulders. It was the only thing I knew to provide a little comfort, it was something I had been doing since I was a baby - I suppose you could still class two as ' _baby_ '.

"I've never seen you act like this before..." I muttered. "You're supposed to be the confident and collected one."

Mycroft's shoulders shook slightly as he chuckled, the arm around me tightening a little. It was those little things that let me know he was starting to relax, let me know that he was starting to calm down from his panic.

"Like you, I'm a _very_ good actor." Mycroft joked with a small smile. "What would I do without you, Lockie?"

"Well, for one you would be _dreadfully_ bored." I grinned.

* * *

Mycroft and I continued to lie on the floor for another fifteen minutes, not really saying anything. It still surprised me how nice the silence was... When living with the parents from hell it was never quiet - someone was always yelling, someone was always crying, something was always breaking... The silence was nice, now that we could have it, but it was still strange trying to get used to it. Though, the noise from having Gregory and John at the house, or even when it was just the two of us - the laughter, the fun, the happiness - that was the kind of noise I liked.

"I should tell Gregory soon." Mycroft sighed, quietly.

"No, you should tell Gregory when you're ready." I corrected.

"No, Lockie... I-I need to tell him soon. Otherwise I may never tell him."

"That is your choice."

Again it went quiet. I felt more than heard my brother sigh, a rustle of clothing sounding as he ran his hand through his hair.

"I just don't know how to tell him." Mycroft mumbled. "I mean, it's not like I can just go - _oh, Gregory, just so you know, I was almost sexually abused as a child, shall we go to the cafe for lunch?_ "

A small sound was heard by the living room door. We would have ignored it, but the sound was too loud to be passed off as a sound of the house. Mycroft was the first to sit up and look towards the doorway, his eyes widening and his breathing all but stopping. Rather alarmed at the reaction of my older brother, I followed his actions and sat up, turning my attention towards the door. Standing there was, not only Gregory, but John as well, the both of them standing there, shocked. Looking away from the two and back to my brother, I found that, for the first time since the court case, it looked as if he was about to cry. It was always a troublesome thought - Mycroft crying. I mean, he was the oldest, he was the strong one. Seeing this, I quickly grabbed his wrist as tightly as I could, hoping that it would give him something to take his mind off of what was happening at that moment. It worked a little - his eyes moved from Gregory and John to look at me.

"Do you want me to stay?" I asked, after I was sure he had calmed down a little. "I can if you want."

Mycroft's hand moved from the floor to my head, ruffling my hair slightly as he shook his head, a shaky smile on his face.

"No, it's alright." he whispered. "Why don't you take John upstairs."

Nodding, I gave his wrist a slight squeeze before standing up and walking over to the blond in the doorway. Once I reached him, I grabbed John's hand, the contact calming me slightly as I looked at Gregory. I didn't have to say anything as I looked at him, the slight nod of his head meaning he understood that I meant bodily harm if he hurt my brother in anyway - not that he would, but I had to make it clear. Only when I was assured he understood, I turned fully to John, a smile easily coming to my face like it did whenever I was near him.

"Come on, I have something to show you." I told him, gently pulling him towards and up the stairs.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock; I'm fine, thanks for asking, how are you?" John teased, following anyway, trading holding my hand for slipping his arm around my waist.

If Gregory was anything to Mycroft like my John was to me, then this whole thing would be fine - it had to be, otherwise I would have to intervene.

* * *

 **Greg**

Mycroft wouldn't look at me, he just stared at the floor next to him. I wanted to go over to him, to hug him and get rid of that terrified look in his eyes, but I was frozen. I couldn't really comprehend what he had said, it was as if the words refused to connect with each other in my head.

Then I saw him shaking.

It was small, something that almost no one would see unless they had seen it before - which they wouldn't have, unless they knew Mycroft well...which they didn't. The shaking got me moving, fast walking from my spot in the doorway until I reached him, dropping to my knees and gathering his slight frame in my arms. Mycroft was, practically, crushed against my chest, his face pressed into the crook of my neck as his hands fisted in my shirt. His body was still shaking and I could feel the shoulder of my shirt beginning to grow damp, so I just held him tighter. The last time Mycroft had cried was a few weeks after the court case, after he had become Sherlock's legal guardian and moved them both into the house. His stress level had been at an all time high, he was scared and a little lost. Sherlock - who had been barely eleven - had been in bed at the time and he had called me over to talk. The fact that Mycroft and I had been friends since he was in reception and I was in year one, as well as the fact I had known I was in love with him since we were twelve and thirteen, had me knocking at his door within minutes. He had cried for, about, a half hour, curled up into a ball on the couch with his head on my shoulder. That had been five years ago.

I shifted slightly until I was sitting on the ground properly, leaning back against the sofa and dragging Mycroft onto my lap. There was this pain in my chest. This pain that seemed to appear only when I was with Mycroft and/or Sherlock. Whenever they were called freaks, whenever they thought so little of themselves, whenever they were upset... It was a pain that I knew John felt too, I could tell whenever someone from their school whispered something about the brunette. It was a pain that didn't go away.

We sat there silently as Mycroft tried to calm down, to stop shaking like a leaf in the wind. He always hated it - being vulnerable in front of someone, especially when he was unsure whether they could be trusted. Even if he _knew_ they could be trusted, he was still wary, years of being with his parents altering his perception of people. It hurt, but I could understand.

* * *

Mycroft didn't calm down for another twenty seven minutes, I checked. He had stopped shaking and the tears had dried up, but he still wasn't saying anything. We had moved from the floor onto the sofa, Mycroft refusing to look me in the eyes and wringing his hands. So I made us both a cuppa, hoping it would allow him some more time to relax.

He said nothing when I came back with the cups.

He said nothing as we sat and drank the hot liquid.

He said nothing as I took the empty cups back out to the kitchen.

He said nothing when I came back into the living room and sat next to him.

"C'mon, you have to talk to me sooner or later." I sighed, gently, wrapping my arm around his shoulders. "Please?"

"Is there any way you could forget what you heard?" he whispered, voice cracking slightly.

Pulling him tighter against me, I placed two fingers underneath his chin, pushing lightly to try get him to look at me. He didn't resist like he used to, didn't try to fight it. He just allowed himself to be moved around.

"Even if I could, I wouldn't." I admitted. "You said yourself you didn't know how to tell me. Well, you don't have to find a way now."

Mycroft didn't say anything. His eyes flickered down towards the cushions, not turning his face away like I thought he would.

"I was ten years old." he whispered after a few moments. "It was late, but I couldn't sleep."

"You don't have to tell me now." I told him, running a hand through his hair.

"I have to."

Willingly, for the first time since he had ran from my apartment, Mycroft looked me in the eyes. I could see the determination in those grey-blue eyes, that stubbornness that refused to be swayed. However, I could also see fear and uncertainty.

"My parents had friends over for the evening; they'd all been drinking. One of my father's friends found his way upstairs into my room." Mycroft muttered. "I was reading Charles Dickens at the time, just some light reading to try and tire me out... I didn't hear my door open."

As he spoke, the shaking returned. He tightened his hands into fists, pushing them into his lap to try and stop the shakes, the tension he was causing to his body not helping in the slightest. When he stopped to breathe, I moved one of my arms until I could run a hand through his hair. I had learnt early on, back when we were kids, that the motion relaxed him - as well as Sherlock - giving a sense of comfort he had never received during his time with his parents. I was more than willing to provide it for him.

"One moment I was reading Oliver Twist, the next I had been grabbed by the shirt, by a very drunk man in his mid thirties. I screamed, as most children would, but he shoved three fingers of one hand into my mouth. I couldn't breathe and I was so... _scared_ and I was crying. I tried to kick and get him away, but I was too small." he whispered, hunching down further. "He'd pinned me onto my bed and, with the hand that wasn't in my mouth, went for my pyjama bottoms. I kept trying to scream, to get away, but I wasn't strong enough. My parents rushed in and got him away from me before he could do anything else. Apparently, to them, it was alright to beat a child, but not to sexually assault them. The bloke's been locked up ever since."

I knew he hadn't gone into as much detail as he could have, didn't tell me as much as he must have done the police. But it was fine, he didn't need to - I didn't want him to. I could fill in the blanks for myself.

"It was the only good thing my parents ever did in my eyes, apart from have Sherlock that is." Mycroft sighed. "I stayed in Sherlock's room for a few months after that. The first night I stayed, he crawled over to me and wouldn't stop hugging me. I couldn't stop thinking that I was glad it was me and _not him_."

* * *

A few days after Mycroft told me about that one incident as a child, I started to realise why he used to run out of my flat. Every time we had been sitting on the sofa, my hand would - unconsciously - at some point, drop on his leg, a little too high up on his thigh. Every time that happened, he would bolt. But I never realised because I never knew I was doing it. So I began to be careful.

I was careful about what I said.

I was careful about where I touched him.

I was careful.

He noticed, of course. I could tell that he was a little frustrated, blaming himself for making me so cautious. But it wasn't his fault. I wanted to tell him that, but every time I tried he changed the course of the conversation. I thought it would never be brought up again.

 _"I wish to engage in sexual activity with you."_

Until Mycroft said that.

It had been just over a month since he had told me what happened when he was ten. We were in my flat again, watching some programme or another on my sofa. I had been careful, just like every other time before that, when he sat up and said that. My jaw dropped. Literally dropped. I mean, how do you respond to that?

"And yes, I'm sure." Mycroft barrelled on. "I have thought about it a lot. It has many positive points - you would no longer feel the need to be so cautious around me, I would be more comfortable with touch, I would have given myself to you fully like I want to."

Blinking quickly, I ran a hand over my face before turning to face the redhead next to me. I was not prepared for this conversation.

"Just because you've thought it through, My, doesn't mean you're ready." I explained. "Do you know how many people regret their first time? How many people wish they waited until they knew they were ready?"

"I'm not entirely aware of the number, but I assume it's around-" he started.

"That's not my point, Mycroft. My point is that you _saying_ you're ready and you _being_ ready are two different things. Right now, you're _saying_ it because you think it'll solve everything. But it won't. Besides, jumping right into sex isn't exactly the best way to go, especially if you're a virgin."

Mycroft flinched as I right out said sex. Flinched as if it was some taboo thing that wasn't supposed to be said - as if he had been hit. It further proved my point that he wasn't ready for that kind of thing.

"But I _do_ want to." he whispered, staring down at the floor.

"And I believe you, My. I do." I reassured him. "But jumping straight to fourth base is not a good idea."

"Fourth base?"

Mycroft's head tilted slightly, like you would see a puppy do when staring at someone, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth turned down into a frown. He was the picture on innocence. It made the whole situation very confusing.

"Yeah, fourth base." I nodded. "First base - kissing, touching above the belt. Second base - touching below the belt. This base - mouths used below the belt and sex toys. Fourth base - having full on sex."

As I had been talking, I hadn't noticed Mycroft's face slowly get redder and redder, the blush reaching the tops of his ears and stretching down his neck, far below his shirt. It was endearing, something that I shouldn't have enjoyed seeing as much as I did. I suppose I just liked knowing I was the only one that got to see it.

"Whenever we get around to doing anything remotely sexual, I'm taking you step by step through the bases." I told him. "No arguments.

* * *

It was only a week after that that it started. I had gone to the house whilst Sherlock was staying at John's, Mycroft and I deciding to just have a night in together. We had just been sitting there, enjoying each other's company, when Mycroft pounced. Ok, pounced is an exaggeration - he was stuttering and stumbling so I kissed him to help him out, but he was the one that started the touching.

He did this whenever we were alone, trying to push himself through every base. But, come on, I wasn't going to make it that easy. I kept true to what I had said, slowly taking him through the bases, staying on one until I could tell he was ready to move to the next.

He seemed to _really_ enjoy second and third base, especially when the two were put together. It was an amazing this to watch, I must admit. Plus, he was a very enthusiastic learner...

Fourth base came almost nine months later.

I had Mycroft in my flat, spread out on my bed, completely devoid of clothes. I didn't understand his issue with his weight - he was gorgeous! As gently as I could, I ran my hands up and down his sides, just enough pressure there to stop it from tickling. I had learnt early on that Mycroft like gentle, soft things - who wouldn't after the childhood he and Sherlock had? Gentle and soft things made him melt, calming and relaxing him. That was why, anytime he was coming over, I made sure I put on the silk bedcovers he's gotten me, letting him be surrounded by something soft.

He sighed quietly, eyelids fluttering shut as he lay there, squirming ever so slightly. I could feel his heart beating erratically through his skin, just like it did every time we were in this position. We had gotten to this stage and further before, but we hadn't gone ' _all the way_ ', because his mind would bring forth the memory from _That Night_ , as we had dubbed it. But it was fine, he now understood why we had to _wait_.

"You sure you want to try again, tonight?" I asked him, quietly. "We can leave it a couple of days."

Without opening his eyes, Mycroft reached towards me, wrapping his arms around my neck, his right hand threading through my hair, tugging me down slightly.

"Please, Gregory." he whispered, his head tilting back subconsciously. " _Please_?"

I had learnt early on that Mycroft rarely said please and, when he did, it was only when he _really_ wanted something. Smiling slightly, with my right hand placed on his hip and the other next to his head, I leant down to brush my lips against his. I still wasn't used to seeing him like this, even after the past nine months. I had told myself from the beginning that, once I _knew_ he was ready for something, I would do anything he wanted. That's what you did for the people you loved.

Just like everything else we had done, I took it slow for him, building it up so he could enjoy it. I wanted to take away the memories plaguing his mind and replace them with _this_. But the only way to do that would be to keep him calm and relaxed. Keeping my lips to his, slowly pushing until my tongue tangled with his, I started to run my right hand up and down his side again, a little firmer than before. Mycroft sighed softly, the nails of his right hand scratching slightly at my scalp from where it was tangled in my hair, pushing just so. I found it amazing how this man seemed so starved for touch, yet never let it show unless he was around people he trusted - Sherlock, John, me. I kept running my hand along his side until he practically melted into the bed, relaxing to the point of not being able to keep a firm grip on anything. As soon as he was relaxed, I let my had drift lower, letting the tips of my fingers brush against hard cock, feeling his hips jerk at the touch and hearing a small breathy sound come from him. The hand in my hair tightened slightly, the muscles in his legs doing the same, only it wasn't out of fear like it used to be. Mycroft was always fine with this part, always fine with the preparation as well, he was fine now. That was all I had to focus on at that time. Gently gliding the pads of my fingers along the perimeter of his cock, barely touching his pale skin.

Pulling my lips away from his, I pulled away slightly, looking down at the man underneath me. He was, to say the least, breathtaking - flushed, panting, coated in a thin film of sweat, eyes closed and head tilted back slightly. He was at his most vulnerable and he trusted me. That was a lot for him.

"Gorgeous." I whispered, reaching over to my bedside table and grabbing the lube and pumping some into my hand.

His breathing deepened as I spread the lube on him, waiting for his muscles to relax. It was the same thing every time, no matter how many times we had done it. It seemed to be a natural response for him, something that annoyed him to no end at the start. I kept my left hand on his right hip, brushing the skin with my thumb as I waited, keeping the pressure as soft as I could. I took seconds before he relaxed, far quicker than the first time. Slowly, steadily, I pushed a finger in. A shaky breathe came from the man beneath me, his eyes fluttering behind in eyelids as his hand tightening in my hair again. Keeping the pace I pushed in with, I built up a rhythm to get hum used to the feeling again. Since the last time we tried had only been the night before, it didn't take long before Mycroft was used to the sensation. He squirmed slightly, a small mewling sound squeaking out as he grew impatient - _needy_.

I kept the same pace, slow and steady, keeping an eye on him - just in case. It made me relax if I knew exactly how he was reacting - it was what I had to do, until he was more comfortable with all of it, that was, and he knew what to expect.

Soon I was three fingers deep, brushing his prostate with every inward stroke, watching as his hips jolted every time and more lewd sounds poured from his mouth. He always found the sounds embarrassing, undignified... Mycroft didn't seem to notice the _very nice_ effect they all had on me. I was sure I could get off to those noises alone! It didn't take long before Mycroft's hand was on my chest, pushing slightly as he rocked his hips to get my fingers in further. It had happened every time so far.

"You sure?" I asked, quietly, still running my thumb along the skin of his hip, slowly pulling my fingers away and reaching for the lube again.

All I got as an answer was a hurried nod of his head, his pupils blow wide as he opened his eyes and grabbed the bottle from me as he sat up, squeezing some of the liquid into his own hand - the one not on my chest. Before I could ask what he was doing, that same hand quickly grabbing the base of my cock, tighter than I would have - though it was still bloody fantastic! As he stroked me to spread the lube, I gripped the back of his neck with my right hand, the other grabbing hold of his bicep, keeping myself steady on my knees as the top of his read rested on my shoulder so he could stare down at what he was doing. Over the months he had gotten _very_ skilled, especially when it came to his hands. Being the talented pianist he was, he had to have skilled hands - I couldn't understand why I never realised how amazing a pianist's hands could be!

He would twist his wrist on the upward stroke, running his thumb over the head harshly, tightening his grip as he brought his hand down. I should have realised that, even before we started dating, that Mycroft would know exactly how I would like it. Considering what he could do, I felt a right idiot! But I didn't think about that too much when _his hand was on my dick_!

Mycroft pulled away after a few more tugs than absolutely necessary, ending with a rough squeeze that, if he had been experienced already, would have had me throwing him back down and ramming into him. Of course, that was not the case. Instead I pushed him back gently, letting the silk of the duvet brush against his skin, watching as his eyes fluttered slightly.

"Are you sure?" I asked for a final time, voice deeper than I expected.

"I trust you." he croaked, barely audible as he linked his hands behind my neck.

Dropping my head to kiss him again, hoping to provide a bit of a distraction, I entered him exactly the same way I did with my fingers - slow and steady. There was less pain that way, only making it feel uncomfortable but bearable for a time. I thought for sure that, as soon as he felt the head, he would yank himself away, almost flying off the bed like all the other times before. This time, he only flinched slightly, clenching his muscles tightly. Letting my hands find his hips again, I ran my hands up and down his sides, just like before, gently drifting them along his skin. It seemed to help, his breathing not so erratic that it was as if he was about to hyperventilate. Only once he was relaxed enough did I actually start to push through the ring of muscle. It didn't really seem to register in his brain what had happened until I couldn't move any further, as if that big brain of his had went off line. Only when he had rebooted did his eyes open an widen, slightly amazed as his breathing picked up a little. I kept running my hands along his skin, giving him something else to focus on instead of getting lost in his head.

It seemed to work.

Before I knew it, we were rocking against each other, these little breathy sounds filling the air every time I brushed against his prostate. He couldn't keep his eyes open, couldn't form anything coherent or keep a grip on anything, he was too lost in the sensation. And he wasn't freaking out, which was a massive bonus.

Once he seemed to relax into it, I sped up slightly, driving a bit move force behind every thrust, hitting his prostate just that little bit harder. I had never heard anyone more vocal or seen anyone become as overtaken by pleasure. It was if a switch had been flipped, making him go from inexperienced-shy virgin, to extremely-enthusiastic-inexperienced-not-so-shy-anymore virgin. It shouldn't have been as hot as it was, but I just couldn't help it - not when it came to Mycroft.

He was coated with come, inside and out, only minutes later, too taken over by the pleasure to focus on anything else. I, myself, was rather chuffed at that.

* * *

The morning after was the best one I had ever had and - absolutely - the last first morning after I would ever have with somebody. I woke up to find the man I loved tucked up next to me, his head resting on my chest, fast asleep. It was this moment that I loved the most after sleeping - in the literally sense, not the sexual - in the same bed with him, just waking up and seeing him there and realising that, yes, it was actually happening and not a dream. I, gently, ran a hand through his hair, fiddling with the fiery locks of hair as I watched him slowly come around. I watched as he blinked lazily, regaining his bearings and remembering what had happened within the past twenty four hours. He turned his head, looking up at me with a small, lethargic smile on his freckled face before nuzzling closer.

Of course he was feeling a bit sore, but he insisted that he had dealt with worse. Still, I all but forced some paracetamol down his throat and take it easy. We did talk about it. I knew he liked it. I found out he would very much like it to happen again. But he also told me that he did keep thinking about _That Night_. It hurt to know that this was something he was going to have to live with, the memory just stored in his brain and ready to taunt him. I suppose he could tell, considering he turned around and told me that, every time he thought of it, I did something to remind him that that wasn't happening and it would never happen again.

As long as I could help in some way, I was happy.

"I love you." I mumbled in his ear as we lounged on the sofa, running my hand through his hair again.

"Why?" he asked, confused, the frown evident in his voice.

"Do I need a reason? You're my best friend, Myc. I've been in love with you for eleven years, desperately hoping that, one day, I would be able to tell you. I've _always_ loved you. There's no reason for it, I just do."

Wrapping an arm around his torso, I pressed my lips against his forehead for a few moments, holding him to myself tightly.

"I love you, too." he whispered, clinging tightly to the thin t-shirt I was wearing.

Grinning to myself, I buried my face into his hair. Even though I hated that his parents made him doubt any and all affection that was show to him - unless it was from Sherlock - I loved that I had a reason to keep reminding him of the fact that I loved him. Not that I needed a reason or an excuse, not that I was condoning or thankful to what they had done to him.

"Hey, Myc, when I ask you to marry me, what will you say?" I asked, brushing my fingers across his bare arms.

"You mean... _if_?" he replied, unsure and shaky.

"No, _when_. I'm going to, _definitely_ going to. Just not yet. But, _when_ I do, what will you say?"

"Yes."

We were married within the year.

Sherlock was Mycroft's best man and I asked John to be mine - John was practically my little brother, it felt right.

My parents flew in from France, treating both Holmes' as sons - even John!

We had three children: the eldest were the twins, William Timothy Carlton Lestrade-Holmes (known as Peanut by Mycroft and Monkey by me) and Isaac Gregory John Lestrade-Holmes (known as Bean by Mycroft and Icka-bug by me), and, our youngest, Eliza Willow Lestrade-Holmes (known as Bubbles by Mycroft and Elli-Belli by me). And I will be the first to say that Mycroft was a damn great dad to our kids.

 _ **"Although the world is full of suffering, it is full also of overcoming it."**_ **\- Helen Keller**

* * *

 _ **I SHOULD REALLY BE WORKING ON MY MULTI-CHAPTERS! DX**_

 _ **Please, please review XD**_

 _ **Thank you everyone XD**_


End file.
